


Battles Long Ago

by rhiannon15900



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M, Major character already dead at start of story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhiannon15900/pseuds/rhiannon15900
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie considers painting a portrait</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battles Long Ago

**Author's Note:**

> This story is by the author Rhiannon of Larton fame, who isn't on line; it's posted with her enthusiastic consent.
> 
> I'll pass on any comments/kudos to her.  
> Hgdoghouse

He glanced, idly, through his studio window, looking down the valley toward the sea. The bracken was turning a warm brown-red, the grass seeming even greener in the evening light. He turned away from the view and glared at the white board on the easel; beginnings were always the worst. The board looked intimidating, its blankness a reproach.

Maybe if he tried a portrait. He hadn't been too successful with them in the past, but perhaps if he tried again. He began to sketch lightly with a crayon, trying to fix a face in his mind. Slowly, slowly the lines began to suggest a face. He paused. "Well, my beauty, where did you come from?" he asked the image.

The coffee percolator began to bubble away, interrupting his thoughts. He wandered over and filled a large mug, sipping it as he stood looking at the sketch.

"What shall I do with you? Now, let's see how you shape if I block you in..." He glanced out the window, the light was beginning to fail...just enough left.

Jane came for him as he was considering finishing off.

"You've disconnected the bell again, haven't you?" she accused. "Aunt says to tell you they've been ringing you to come over for dinner for hours. She also says, will you please wash your hands this time, the Reverend Urquhart didn't appreciate the peas being passed by someone with livid green fingernails last Sunday lunch. She thinks he suspects you have brought some virulent disease from Africa, which you are also using to escape his boring sermons."

He grunted in reply to this second-hand tirade and went over to the sink to wash his brushes, and hands. "Wish it had stayed light longer."

"Really, William! You wouldn't come over to eat at all if it did." She went over to look at the sketch while she waited. "Who is he?"

"No idea. Probably I've seen him somewhere, made an impression on me. Could be from a painting; he has an old-fashioned look, hasn't he?"

"Yes," agreed Jane, looking into the eyes that looked back at her from the easel. Abruptly she turned away. "Oh, come on, or we'll all hear again about punctuality being the politeness of Princes. Uncle has guests, too, I'm afraid."

"God! How many?"

"Only four, if you count the Rev, the Frasers, and some old Army buff from Uncle's murky past. No doubt we'll get El Alamein over the port and nuts...again!"

"Excellent salmon, William," his Uncle's voice boomed down the table. "You'll have to try that stretch again next year."

"Yes, sir," he agreed, reluctantly dragging his attention back to the table conversation and away from his work. He decided he must, for decency's sake, give his fellow diners some attention. The Reverend Urquhart, whom he'd been trying to avoid, feeling some antipathy for the man, the Frasers, a neighbouring couple who were fanatical breeders of gun-dogs, which rather circumscribed their conversation, his Uncle's 'old Army friend'. A small man with greying sandy hair, a fellow Scot, who, it appeared, had bought a house nearby, to retire to.

"Major Cowley has bought the old Sinclair house," said his Uncle, unexpectedly echoing William's own thoughts, as he turned to the Major. "It's a lovely old house, George, but isolated. Won't you find it rather quiet after the life you've led? Lonely, too, when you get snowed up in the winter, as you will. You won't see a soul for weeks on end."

"Och, it'll not bother me," replied the Major. "You get used to being alone, and I've always wanted to retire back to Scotland. Give me a chance to get some reading done at last, a spot of fishing, and the garden is in dire need of attention. That should keep me busy, and it's a fine, peaceful house."

William cleared his throat. "I've always wanted to paint that house," he remarked. "If I could come over some time, sir, and do some sketches?"

"William!" protested his Uncle. "Major Cowley has come here for peace and quiet, not to have you cluttering up the place with paints and paraphernalia..."

"Nonsense," interrupted the Major. "I doubt one painter will disturb me at all. You're welcome. Come over any time."

"Thank you, Sir. I promise I won't be too obtrusive."

The talk then went on to other matters, finishing, as predicted, with the two great battles of El Alamein over the port and nuts.

Later in the evening, he was looking out of the library window when Jane came into the room.

"Almost dark, isn't it?" She shivered. "Winter will be here soon now." There was no reaction to her words but she smiled at him anyway. "You'd better get those drawings started soon, hadn't you?"

"Yes. I'll go over later this week, get the drawings started, then I'll have something to work on when the snow comes. Are they still talking in the dining room?"

"Oh, yes. Going at it hammer and tongs, difference of opinion on tactics, I believe." They both laughed. "Well, goodnight, William."

"Goodnight. I'd better go and make my apologies for leaving early."

He was about to open the door to the dining room when he heard his Uncle's voice.

"Do you think it's wise, George? Something could remind him. William has been so well lately, he really seems happy here."

"For heaven's sake, Hamish. There's nothing at...I don't keep all my regimental photographs on every table in the room, like old Fraser."

"And me," his Uncle laughed. "Lots of happy memories there, George."

"I wish I could forget mine," said the Major. "No, the lad will be fine at my place. I'll keep an eye on him for you, I know how Margaret fusses."

William felt suddenly chilled for a moment. His Aunt did fuss, but then his long illness must have been a strain on the family. He'd noticed their urge to be protective every time he left the house; but as he knew it stemmed from their obvious affection for him, it did not vex him.

He decided not to pay his respects as they seemed deep in conversation again. So, with thoughts of the portrait in his mind, he went off to bed.

Next morning, he awakened early. Wanting to make an early start in his studio, he had ignored the cook's indignation and cries of "You need a good Scots breakfast inside of you on these cold mornings, not just a wee slice of bread!" as he made himself a quick sandwich.

The portrait was waiting. He got down to work. He was reasonably satisfied with the background and decided to make some more notes in the evening when the light should be similar; better get that right. He was itching to start but it would do no good to hurry. He busied himself with other work, deciding he'd make do with coffee and biscuits at lunch time.

Was that the bell for lunch? He disconnected it, as usual, then shortly after, heard his Uncle clumping up the stairs.

"William, have you switched that damned bell off again?"

"I'll be over shortly," he called.

"You'll be over now. Didn't have any breakfast, did you? What have you got on hand now? Always the same, you painter fellows, single-minded, roof could fall in, you wouldn't notice," he grumbled. "Let's have a look at it."

There was a long silence.

"Can't say I like it," said his Uncle finally. "Bit fanciful, isn't it? Fellow's too pretty for a start. No one round here like that, thank goodness. Come on now, your lunch will get cold, and you know how your Aunt will go on..."

"Right. I'll just cover you up," he said to the portrait. "Then I can come over later. Get the light sorted out."

Later that evening, he stood back and considered his work. The green eyes in the picture looked calmly back into his. The soft evening light making the red-brown of the hair glow, the portrait seemed almost to be part of the landscape; from a distance it became a part again, merging in. Still, it made a good effect, he thought. He began to sketch the jacket a darker green, just a suggestion would be enough. Now he needed to stop and think. He stood there looking at the quiet face.

"Well, I don't know who you are, but you're welcome here."

Next day, as the weather was holding, he went over to Major Cowley's new home. Autumn in Scotland wasn't noted for clear fine days and how long this spell would last was anyone's guess.

Major Cowley greeted him cheerfully, then showed him over the place proudly.

"I once visited here, many years ago," said the Major. "Knew General Sinclair well, served with him once. When he told me he was selling up as his wife needed a warmer climate, and they had found at their age keeping the place going was a problem, I jumped at the chance. Always wanted a home like this, back in Scotland. Now, I know you'll want to get down to work but come in when you're ready and we'll have a meal together."

He toured the gardens looking for the best vantage point to sketch the house. Doing several quick sketches. The old walled garden attracted him. Maybe if he had time...Oh, damn, he'd make time...

He whistled as he worked...some of those gnarled old roses looked as though they'd been growing here when Charlie was marching south...

"'Oh came ye out of France...'" he sang to himself. He stopped suddenly, a feeling of being watched. He glanced around seeing only the ancient trees. He went over to look at the roses. Only a few blooms left, paper white, waiting for the early frosts. He reached to one. It shivered and fell as he touched it...He felt a chill. "You're getting fanciful," he said firmly. "Get back to work."

He worked until the light began to go and the evening chill came.

A cheerful light showed from the house and he went in.

"Ah, William, come on into the library. I have a meal keeping warm, but first a dram to ward off the cold."

The meal was excellent and, settled in front of the roaring fire with a glass of good malt in his hand, he felt contented with the world.

"You'd better stay the night," Major Cowley was saying. "There's a storm on the way according to the radio, you'll never make it back to the castle on foot in time to avoid it. You can ring your Uncle and tell him you're with me, so he won't worry."

"If you're sure you don't mind..."

"No, of course not. It will be company and give me a chance to hear all the local news," the Major assured him.

They began to discuss local matters. Major Cowley, he noted, seemed determined to settle here permanently.

"You won't find it dull here, Sir? My Uncle said you've had a pretty eventful career."

"No, William, all I want now is peace, and a chance to catch up on some important things I've never had time for before. But what about you? You're still young, don't you find it dull here?" He smiled.

"No, Sir. As my Uncle may have told you, I've had an eventful career, too, or so they say...my memories are very hazy about it. Some things are sharp enough, my serving in Africa, but after that, well, sometimes I almost remember before my illness, then it goes, but I've got enough here to keep me busy, and I have my work. The doctors say I must have 'edited' my memories and what I can't remember is what I don't want to remember. The doctors felt I've had enough to deal with anyway without stirring up things better left buried...and the family have filled in most of the blanks for me. I've been very lucky there. When I began to improve, they suggested I settle up here with them. I remembered staying here when I was a child; started painting then. After that, well, anyway I decided to try again and it's worked out very well."

Major Cowley sighed. "It would be a fine thing if we could all edit our memories. We do, you know." He laughed. "How many times do you hear old soldiers go on about the grand times they had in the war, and how the summers were always better when they were boys..."

They both laughed and went on to talk of the gardens of his painting.

"I saw you were sketching in the walled garden, didn't like to intrude. How is it coming on?"

"Quite well. It's a beautiful place, even now, with winter coming on. A great feeling of peace there," William replied.

Major Cowley was silent awhile. "Yet if you hear the local stories, peace is the last thing you should feel there...if the stories are true, and they are all very vague."

"What stories? Go on, I'm curious."

"Oh, two men died there, violently. They were clansmen on the run, from who knows what skirmish or clan feud. One of them was badly injured, his friend was carrying him almost. They were making for this house but when they got to the hill over there they saw the blackened roof timbers, the troopers had got here first, everything was deserted. They stopped to shelter, the injured man couldn't go on. The soldiers came back and found them. They were shot against one of the walls in the garden...the locals will even tell you it's haunted."

"Who were they?"

"No one seems to know that for sure. May not have been from these parts at all."

"Well, that probably explains the feeling I've had in the garden of being watched."

Major Cowley blinked. "Being watched?"

"Yes. Quite often today I felt someone was there, almost caught sight of him once when I turned round. Still, as long as he doesn't start offering advice on the painting I don't mind at all."

"Well," said the Major. "Listen to that wind howling, we'd better turn in, it's after two o'clock."

William went to bed. He slept badly, the wind was really howling round the house, so finally he got up and went down to the library and sat by the fire. It had been banked up but still gave off plenty of warmth. He poured himself a small dram then settled down in the armchair, leaning back and closing his eyes...the portrait was gazing at him. "So you're here too, are you? Well, I'm not putting another brush to you before I've had a good think. You can wait, my fine green-eyed fellow..." He gasped, the crystal glass fell from his hand and shattered on the hearth.

"Are you all right, William?" Major Cowley's anxious voice. I heard you come down."

He must have dozed off. "I'm sorry, Sir. I couldn't sleep, came down, must have started to fall asleep, something startled me. I've broken one of your glasses."

"That doesn't matter," said Cowley, brushing the accident aside. "We talked so late and you'd been working so long, I should have realised, your Aunt and Uncle would be wild with me."

"Now don't you start." William laughed. "It's bad enough them treating me as though I'm made of spun glass. The wind's dropping now, I'll go back to bed."

When William had gone, Major Cowley picked the pieces of crystal up, then stood there thinking...

Next day, after phoning the castle and agreeing, 'Yes, I'll eat a good breakfast, yes, I'll wrap up warmly,' he got down to quick studies of the house and colour notes. Two seemed good possibilities so he concentrated on them. Finished for the moment, he went back to the walled garden and found Major Cowley there clearing the leaves and fallen branches after the gale, preparing the beds for winter.

"Much damage?" he asked.

"No. It's pretty sheltered here. The roses have fallen, of course, but the frost would have finished them soon enough. I'll just get the beds tidy and make some protection for the more delicate plants, then that will be that until the Spring."

"Anything I can do?" William asked.

"Well, there's bracken and straw over there, lay it on that far border, some plants there don't like having their feet nipped by the frosts. I'll wrap some sacking round the lower branches of the old roses, they're tough enough but they're beginning to feel their age and could do with a bit of comfort."

"Yes, I was looking at them yesterday. They could have been here when the Prince landed at Moidart, couldn't they? They seem old enough."

Major Cowley laughed. "They could at that, though I doubt we could prove it. The house was certainly here then. They do say..."

William began to whistle softly. There was a gasp.

"Oh, damn!" cursed the Major. "Got a handkerchief, William? The knife slipped, just as I was cutting the twine there."

William went over. "Well, it's a clean cut, better get a dressing on it."

"Yes. But where did an Englishman like you hear that song?" asked the Major indignantly. "'Come ye out of France' indeed."

"Well, I had a Scots grandfather, didn't I!" protested William. "Heard it from him, I expect, or from my Jacobite Aunt." He helped the Major into the house. He'd gone rather pale, must be his age, he thought.

He returned to the garden to finish tying the sacking round the roses and to collect his sketches. It was very quiet now. He tied up the last one and patted the branch. "There, old girl, you'll see the winter out now, but no more bonnie princes for you, I'm afraid. Out of fashion they are." He felt suddenly lost, sad; the garden seemed strange, unearthly. The lines from a poem Jane had recited at a family gathering came into his head.

'Who knocks? I who was beautiful, beyond all dreams to restore, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither and knock at your door...'

He turned and looked into the eyes of the portrait...then it was only the green shadows in the trees.

"William," he said to himself firmly, "You had better get that picture out of your head!"

He put away the garden tools, then, picking up his work, went inside. The Major was sitting by the library fire listening to his radio.

"Finished, William?"

"Yes, Sir. But if I could do just a few more sketches?"

"Certainly, but if I keep you here much longer your family will never speak to me again!"

"Right. I'll walk home now, but if I could come again next Tuesday? I have to go into Edinburgh on Saturday."

"Yes, I'll be away myself then, but you can let yourself in, your Uncle has a key. He's going to check the place over when I'm away on business."

His Aunt and Uncle welcomed the prodigal home with as much relief as though he had been up the Congo by canoe. Used to their fussing and knowing it came from affection for him, he hugged them both and stated firmly all he needed to put him right was a good meal.

His business in Edinburgh was more difficult to resolve.

"It's no good, Mr. Bodie," the clerk said finally. "We'll have to tackle the London branch again. Very inefficient indeed; London ways, I expect! Never seem to have heard of invoices down there!"

"I'll just have to go down and see to it myself."

There was a show he wanted to see at the Hayward Gallery but had kept telling himself he couldn't possibly fit it in; here was the perfect excuse. He could catch the night sleeper, get there early and sort this mess out, go to the Gallery and catch the midnight sleeper back. He'd be home the day after tomorrow. All he had to do was ring home and tell them.

His Uncle, as expected, did not care for the plan, but after he had pointed out that after trampling through the wilder stretches of Africa, the surely quieter jungle of the metropolis should not present too much of a challenge, gave way.

He had forgotten just how crowded and noisy the streets were, but most of the old landmarks seemed to be there, and he settled his business satisfactorily.

The exhibition at the Gallery was 'interesting' and he could now understand some of the more vitriolic reviews it had gathered. He was idly composing a counter-blast to be sent to the 'Scotsman' when he heard his name being called.

"Bodie. It is you, isn't it?" A tall, dark man was coming over, smiling.

He searched his memory for a name.

"It's Murphy," supplied the man. "I heard you had a memory problem."

The name seemed to mean something...

"Yes, I'm sorry." He paused, wondering what to say. "You here for the exhibition?" Daft question, he thought to himself.

"In a way. I'm in charge of security for the Gallery. Not that we expect any trouble." He glanced at the walls with distaste. "Maybe that Faberge exhibition gave us a lot of problems, but at least you could see they were worth stealing!"

Bodie laughed. "Yes, I heard about that. You here permanently then?"

"Yes. It's a good job; nice place, regular hours, even get home to see the wife and kids now. Not like the old days. Look, I'm off in an hour, care to come for a drink? I'll come and collect you."

"Fine. I'd like to look at some of the other rooms while I'm here. We'll be snowed up in Scotland in a month or two, won't be able to get down here again until the Spring."

They went to a small old hotel near the Gallery and had an excellent meal, with a few drinks, as they talked. Bodie felt as though they were discussing someone else, it all seemed so long ago, as though in a mist.

Murphy laughed suddenly. "Remember that flat warming you had? The neighbours called the local police over the noise. Ray took a bet he could walk across the floor on his hands, would have, too, if we hadn't forgotten to move the coffee table. You had to take him to hospital to get his head stitched at three a.m. God, what a night."

Bodie smiled, he did remember some such riotous event. He'd always been shepherding Ray in and out of hospital until that... there was a sharp pain in his chest.

"Damn." He felt for the pills he always carried.

Murphy had stopped talking and looked at him.

"You all right, mate?"

"Yeah, just a twinge." He slipped the tablet under his tongue. The pain seemed to grow easier. He glanced at his watch. "Hell, I've got to go. Taxi rank just round the corner still?"

"Yes. I'll walk with you. Sure you wouldn't be better staying until tomorrow?"

"No, I'd rather get back. This place is too busy for me now, and Ray is waiting. Ah, there's one!"

Murphy stared after him as he went over to the taxi. Ray... waiting... He shook his head and set off for the wife, kids and his neat suburban home. "Poor sod," he muttered.

"Stop looking at that clock, Hamish!" growled Major Cowley. "And stop worrying, the lad has been in a lot tougher places. I'd hardly call the Hayward Gallery a 'no go' area after all!"

"I know, George, I know, but his Aunt worries so when he's away. Has he got his tablets, is he wearing a warm scarf, you know how it is. We never expected to find a son at our time of life, but that's what he's become to us. We must thank you for that. If only he'd make a match with Jane. I know he's as fond of her as she is of him, tackled him about it once, but he claims it isn't fair to her in view of his heart condition. I expect he's right."

The Major sighed. "I wish I'd known about you sooner, Hamish. He's always been so secretive about his family. Then, after the breakdown following that long spell in hospital, I went into his background, needed to find someone to take responsibility for him, and traced you. Thank God."

"Yes, we'd lost all contact after his mother died. A hard man his father, you wouldn't have trusted him with a dog let alone a child. Still, William has settled down well, and seems happy enough with his painting. Have you seen any of it by the way?"

"Just a few sketches, that's all. Seemed pretty good to me."

"Yes. Come over to the studio. He won't mind, and I need to re-connect that bell of his. I've worked out a way to stop him disconnecting that thing when he doesn't want to be bothered."

They walked over to the small building.

"Used to be a storehouse. Had it made over into a bed-sit when we went into the tourist business, didn't come off, fortunately. It's just right for William, he has his privacy when he wants it. Put in a good window for the light, he can even sleep here if he feels like it in the summer."

They went in.

Cowley looked around. "Very comfortable." He began to study some of the paintings in the room. "You're right, Hamish, he is good. I'd like to buy a couple myself."

The General grunted as he worked on the bell. "Not sure this is going to work, George. Still, it's a challenge I say." He finished and went over to the easel. "Oh, he's still working on this one. Still don't care for it."

Major Cowley went over. He stood staring.

"George, are you all right?"

"Yes. It's just...well, no matter. I thought I recognised him, that's all."

The bell rang.

"Must be wanted in the house," the General muttered. "Stay here, I'll be back in a moment."

He was only half-way across the yard when Jane met him with his car keys. As he returned to the studio he heard Cowley's voice.

"Damn you. You've been seven years dead. Can't you rest alone..."

He slipped out again and went to the station to pick up William. He must ask George about the portrait...

The opportunity came two days later. He'd gone over with William to visit the Major. Bodie was sure this would be his last chance to paint before the weather closed in, and it seemed likely he was right. He'd finished his studies of the house but wanted to try again in the old garden; being sheltered it shouldn't be too uncomfortable there today. While he worked, the two old friends sat by the fire and talked.

"George, I need to know about that portrait. If it concerns William's happiness I have a right to know!"

"Yes." Cowley sighed. "Very well." He passed a photograph over. "This is Ray Doyle."

The General studied it. "Yes, I see the likeness, but the painting is idealised surely. Who is, or was he?"

"Idealised? I don't know," said Cowley slowly. "It's how Bodie saw him, and he did look like that sometimes. As to what he was, one of my agents, a good one, a tough street arab. He was William's partner...and lover."

The General raised his eyebrows. "Go on. You wouldn't tell me that if it wasn't relevant."

"No. He was killed on what I thought was a safe, simple job, while Bodie was in hospital. I had to send him out, you know what it was like. His partner was inexperienced, got himself into deep trouble. Ray went to help him, was hit, he died an hour later in hospital. He came round once, asked for Bodie, then slipped into a coma. Your nephew was so badly injured, we could not tell him what had happened. I'm not sure if he understood when we did. His complete breakdown following so soon after, when we realised his memory had developed large gaps, well, it seemed best not to try and stimulate it. Also, by the time he was reasonably coherent again, several months had passed, and his health was taking most of the doctors' attention. Perhaps if we had given him a chance to mourn...does he ever mention the past to you?"

"No, hardly ever, and he's never mentioned a Ray Doyle, I'm sure of that. You say they lived together?"

"Yes, for a year or so, according to my information. Happily, though a trifle noisy on occasion...perhaps it would have lasted, who knows?" Cowley looked into the fire.

"I see," said the General. "And the portrait, will he recognise it eventually? And if he does, his heart condition, George!"

"You are quite sure he doesn't know who it is?"

"Quite sure. He talks to it, but then he does that to all his paintings, it doesn't seem to worry him at all. Ah, here he is now. Did you get everything you needed, William?"

"Yes, that's it now. It's getting much colder, there's snow in the air."

Bodie moved to the fire to warm his chilled hands.

"Well, let's see what you've done," the General demanded.

Bodie passed his work over.

"This is good. Take a look, George. So you've put a figure into the garden, looks well enough."

Cowley looked, the head was turned away but the stance was unmistakeable.

"Where does he come from, William?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, somewhere in my head. He's been trying to get into a sketch for some time, so I decided the walled garden was just right for him. Effective, isn't it?"

"Yes," agreed the General. "Well, we'd better have some tea and then be on our way before your Aunt sends out a search party."

"How is Margaret these days?" asked Cowley.

"Oh, fine. Still an unreconstructed Jacobite, keeps trying to infect William here. She's writing a piece for the local paper at the moment, just as well, keeps her out of the kitchen. When she and Flora get together the meals are never on time!"

It was early evening when they arrived home. Bodie excused himself and went over to his studio to set everything to rights for an early start.

He'd finished the portrait as far as he intended for the moment, and fixing a temporary frame, set it on the wall where he could study it constantly.

He dumped his painting gear and, whistling to himself, began to sort things out. He glanced up at the portrait.

"You know I've made you a bit too handsome, a bit too remote as well...still, you were like that at times. Though I remember you laughing like a drain when..."

A door in his mind opened as he gazed at the portrait. "Ray..." he murmured. "Ray!" Then the door closed, leaving him conscious of the fierce pain in his chest. He took out a tablet and waited calmly for it to take effect.

As the pain slowly faded he moved over to the small kitchen and made himself a hot drink, then looked at the portrait. Some of the memories had remained.

"I know you now, at least your name...and the knowledge that I loved you, and lost you...a long time ago. You're dead, aren't you? I don't need to know anymore. You're here with me now, that's what matters. Just be patient, love..."

"William!" a voice called. "Are you coming over? It's getting cold. You've disconnected that damn bell again, haven't you?"

Bodie smiled. "It's all right, I'm coming over now."

The General had decided to make one last trip over to the Sinclair place to see Major Cowley before the worst snowfalls occurred. The ground was already crunching under their feet as he and Bodie went into the yard. Major Cowley was stacking his winter log supply with the help of his gardener and general handyman.

"Ready for the winter, George?" the General asked.

"Yes, this should see me through. Come over for a last look round, have you both? We'll take a turn round the grounds, and then a hot toddy."

They walked slowly, talking of recent events.

Bodie glanced into the garden. The sky was turning red, tinting the snow.

The gardener muttered quietly and Bodie glanced at him. "Something wrong, Angus?"

"No, That place. It was about this time of the year it happened, reminded me."

Bodie thought back. "Oh, the men shot by the soldiers. Major Cowley told me the story."

"Ah, no. That didn't happen here. That happened over at Craigen. They get the stories mixed up, not many of us remember them now. It was a quarrel between two clans. They were running for home, foster brothers they were, you understand, sworn to help each other, but one had heard his love was very ill, asking for him. Well, his brother was wounded, he couldn't leave him. They caught them over there by the wall. It was soon over. They say his love died, too, from grief, though that's not certain. It's a sad tale, but he died well, on his feet, until the swords cut him down."

As they walked on, Bodie glanced back. The snow was tinted red against the wall.

Cowley stood looking into the walled garden. The green shoots were starting to appear again.

Angus came over to him. "I hear the lad at the castle is no well?"

Cowley nodded his confirmation. "He's got a tired heart, Angus. I saw him yesterday, still working away. He seems very content. Angus, some years ago you scattered some ashes for me here. You remember? You did it here, didn't you?"

"Yes," Angus replied. "They say in the old days that was holy ground, seemed right, over by the thorn."

"Yes," said Cowley. "I thought so."

END


End file.
